


Urs-A-Ka-Gan part 3

by primreceded



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King, Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-24
Updated: 2009-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:24:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primreceded/pseuds/primreceded





	Urs-A-Ka-Gan part 3

It’s not as close to morning as Dean would like it to be when he’s woken by Sam’s large hand shaking him. He pulls his arm from the sleeping bag to ineffectually push him away, but Sam only shakes harder.

“Wake up, Dean!” he hisses quietly, urgently , and Dean’s eyes snap open. It’s still pretty dark, maybe somewhere around four in the morning , but Sam is outlined well enough that he can see the look on his brother’s face.

He’s on alert now and climbs the rest of the way out of the sleeping bag, searches the surrounding woods for whatever woke his brother, but he doesn’t see anything, doesn’t hear anything either.

“Sam, what - ”

“Shhh!”

Dean stops and listens again, but there’s still nothing. And then he feels it, slight at first, but after a minute of sitting still, it gets stronger. It’s the same vibration they felt the last time they were here.

“You feel it?” Sam asks, and Dean nods, swallows thickly, then climbs up to his feet and grabs a gun.

“Start on the trap, I’m gonna go check it out.”

“Dean, no. Are you crazy? You can’t go out there alone.” Sam gets to his feet too and puts a hand out to stop Dean, but Dean pulls away and throws his brother an annoyed look.

“I’m a big boy, Sammy. I can take care of myself,” he replies. He grabs a flashlight too, not wanting to trip and land in something that’ll prove Sam right. He nods to the bag of supplies that holds the spray paint and looks pointedly at Sam.

“Get to work. I’ll be back.”

Sam shouts after him to be careful as he picks his way through the woods. Straight ahead is the best direction to go in, and he does, hoping he’s not going to get lost. He doesn’t have plans on going too far in anyway. He’s not stupid, he knows how easy it is to get disoriented, especially in the dark. He’d never hear the end of it from Sam, either.

He walks for maybe ten minutes, the vibrations getting stronger with each step he takes, and he hopes that if he has to, he’ll be able to run back in the right direction. He makes sure to not swerve off his path, so he can about-face _just so_ when the time comes and it shouldn’t be a problem.

There’s a loud crashing noise, a splintering of wood from not too far ahead, and he stops to listen. Hears a roar that’s louder than anything, louder than any sound that could come from a normal bear. He makes the decision to not go any further, but he does shout, hopes he’s far enough in that Sam doesn’t hear and come running to his rescue.

He stands there for a few more minutes, ready to give up and feeling foolish, when there’s another crash, closer now, and he can actually see the tree fall and the others shake with the weight of whatever is passing through. Whatever it is, it’s fucking huge, and they just might actually be in over their heads on this one.

It’s when it finally breaks through the trees that he decides he doesn’t care which direction he goes in, just as long as he gets the hell away from it. It’s a bear, definitely. One that hasn’t quite evolved into today’s standards. But then again, he’s never actually seen one up close before, so maybe that is normal.

The thing is at least twelve feet tall as it stands on its hind legs, front paws up. It growls, and the sound echoes around Dean, the breath from it almost knocking him back both by force and the smell. It snuffles, like it has a cold or allergies, and Dean realizes that whatever he landed in the other night came from it.

“That is sick.”

The words escape before he can stop them, and the bear snaps its attention to Dean. Dean goes stiff, knows now what it means to be caught like a deer in the headlights, and he starts backing up slowly, hands up in defense like the bear cares. He hopes he has enough of a head start with the distance between them to get away from it, but the thing’s got a longer stride than even Sammy, so he doubts it.

“Nice bear, you don’t want to eat me… maybe a nice fish. Or, oh, how about a little annoying blonde demon, huh? She’s feisty, probably makes for good flavor.”

The bear howls again, but Dean doesn’t stop to listen, takes the distraction as a sign to haul ass and does so. He doesn’t care if it makes him a coward, the thing can eat him in one bite. He whips through the trees, the ground shaking beneath his feet as the bear lumbers after him. He can hear it grunting behind him, and his thoughts are momentarily taken over by those of hellhounds. He wonders if this is what they’ll sound like. Snivels and growls that shoot goosebumps down your spine.

His lungs burn and exhaustion starts to take over, arms stinging from branches slapping against his bare skin, but he finally breaks through the trees. He yells for his brother, and Sam’s head shoots up, eyes wide. He’s got the trap sprayed out in front of him, large - hopefully large enough.

Dean stops, bends quickly to catch his breath and tries to tell Sam to prepare, to be ready. It’s coming, and he won’t like it. The bear snaps through the trees only seconds after Dean makes it to Sam’s side, and his brother curses. It stops at the edge of the woods on all fours and lets out a yell.

It stops midway through, head reared back, and Dean throws Sam a look from the corner of his eye. The bear sneezes again, snot and bugs flying from its nose, landing on the ground to slick the grass, and Dean gags.

The two of them back up as the bear starts to move again, take giant steps behind them away from the trap. Sam starts his litany of Latin as the bear gets closer to the painted circle, but nothing happens. He talks louder; the bear steps closer and doesn’t stop. The Latin doesn’t affect it at all. Dean swears.

They turn and run back over to their stuff, grab what they can - the sleeping bags can stay. They hear the bear sneeze again and take it as an opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge. The sun is up now, shining bright, and they press on. Dean can hear the bear on his heels again, can feel its hot, moist breath on the back of his neck.

Sam’s ahead of him, and he calls out, wants his brother to wait. Sam stops in his tracks and turns, aims the gun and fires, but Dean’s already feeling the pain. The sharp slice of nails through flesh as the bear rips through his shoulder. He cries out but doesn’t falter, keeps moving. The bear growls angrily behind him as it's hit with Sam’s bullet, but Dean knows it’s not dead and the bullet probably did little more than piss it off.

They make it all the way back to the car, the bear left behind somewhere, but they don’t stop, don’t take any chances. Dean can feel the blood seeping through his shirt, slipping down his back in rivulets. And when he slides into the car, it pulls the flesh, and he can’t help but cry out in pain. Sam shoves him over to the passenger side as best he can, scolds him and then drives them back to the motel, shooting him worried glances the entire way.

\---

“I can’t leave my baby an orphan!”

“Dude, it’s a _car_ ,” Sam says, frustrated, while he tries to hold Dean down with one hand and clean out his cuts with the other. “And second, they’re barely deep enough to require stitches, stop being a drama queen.”

The cuts are mostly superficial, and they know how lucky Dean is. How lucky they both are. It could’ve been so much worse. The shirt's a lost cause, and there are some cuts that need stitches . After Dean has taken a few more swigs of whiskey to dull the pain, his brother sets about putting his brother back together again. His hands shake, and he tries to steady them before Dean sees. Dean sees anyway.

Sam finishes stitching up the last of the gashes and leans over to bite the thread loose. He pauses there a second, two, lips hovering over Dean’s skin.

“You even so much as think about kissing it better and I will punch you in the face.”

Sam huffs a laugh, straightens, tiny smile pulling the corners of his mouth. He gathers the remainder of the first aid kit in one hand and uses the other as leverage - a little pressure to Dean’s back, base of the wounds still red and sore - and pushes himself up. Dean yelps in pain and half-heartedly swats at Sam’s retreating, laughing, form.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Dean,” he says.

Dean grunts and turns over to lie on his uninjured side, watches Sam stalk around the room and clean up the mess. His brother‘s body is set in a rigid line, angry and frustrated. Dean feels the same. The only way they knew how to kill that thing fell through, and now they’re back at square one. They can‘t let it stay out there taking innocent lives, no matter how long it takes them to figure it out.

“I told you we should have set the woods on fire.” He tries for funny, but it only comes out strained, pained. Sam smirks anyway before plopping into a chair and biting his thumbnail. It’s a bad habit Dean’s been trying to break him of since they were kids, but Sam’s stubborn if nothing else.

“I don’t get it, man,” Sam says. “Why didn’t it work?”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean replies as he tries to get comfortable. Those painkillers should be kicking in at any moment now. Hopefully. “Maybe the exorcism and trap don’t work on animals. Maybe it’s not even possessed.”

“Maybe.” Sam’s got a faraway look in his eye now, probably running through everything he’s ever learned to come up with the right answer. Out of the two of them, Sam’s the one who gets the most aggravated when things don’t go right. Blames himself.

“Why don’t you call Bobby,” Dean asks him around a yawn. “Maybe he knows somethin’.”

Sam nods, mumbles a yeah, and Dean hears him shift around, start up the laptop. He falls asleep to the clicking of the keys.

\--- 

Dean dreams about being in the woods, trees towering over him and blocking out the sky, darkening the ground so it’s nothing but black. Howls echo through the trees all around him, broken only by the growl of a bear thundering behind him, shaking the earth beneath his feet as he tries to get away.

There’s no escape, though, he knows that. He could keep running forever, but there would be no exit, only sharp cries and yowls. But then there’s light, and he runs towards it, _freedom_ , he thinks, and he should really should know better. In the lighted clearing stands Lilith. A child in pigtails and a blood-stained white dress, holding out her hand and smiling.

He wakes up drenched in sweat just as his dream self touches her fingers with his own. He’s panting harshly, and he runs his hand through his soaked hair only to cry out in pain when it irritates his injured side. He really can’t win.

“You okay?”

Sam startles him a bit, but he recovers, looks away from his brother‘s worried expression as he climbs from the bed to go splash some water onto his face.

“What’d Bobby have to say?” he calls from the bathroom. He grabs a towel and dries his face, then steps back into the room where Sam sits, watching him.

“Not much, actually. Nothing we don’t already know, at least. There is a guy, though, uh,” Sam pauses and flips through his black notebook, “Tower. Bobby said to give him a call, he might know more.”

Dean nods and throws the towel off to the side before crawling back onto the bed. He doubts he’ll get back to sleep, but he can pretend, close his eyes and even his breathing so that Sam doesn’t get the urge to talk. He knows Sam is dying to ask him what he was dreaming about, but he doesn’t want to think about it.

He lies there for a while, feigning sleep until he hears Sam stand, crack his back and set about darkening the room for the night. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out but, peeking through his squinted eyes, he can see it’s pretty dark outside. The painkillers must have knocked him out for far longer than they usually do. It probably says a lot about how exhausted he’s been, but he doesn’t want to think about that either. He has to keep moving.

Sam lies down on his own bed, the springs squeaking under the weight of him. The minutes tick by, and finally his brother’s breath slows into sleep. Dean lies there listening to him, his eyes growing heavy, and eventually sleep takes him over once again.  


  
\---  


“Why can’t we just call this guy, again?“ Dean asks.

He woke up this morning in pain and grouchy. There had been no more dreams, but his sleep had still been fitful. There's no way he's going to take more painkillers and end up groggy, though. It's bad enough Sam forced him into the passenger side again, _You don’t want to drive us into a ditch, do you, Dean?_

“Number Bobby gave me is out of service, and I couldn’t find any Calvin Tower in the area, so…”

“So we have to drive all the way into New York City to maybe talk to some guy who might not even be there,” he says matter-of-factly, irritated, and Sam sighs.

“Yeah, well, do you have any better ideas? Because I don’t,” he says, eyebrows furrowed and looking at Dean with annoyance. Dean doesn’t have any either , and barks at Sam to keep his eyes on the road, instead.

They drive in silence for a while, Dean staring out the passenger side window, nothing but trees and the guardrail for him to look at as they cruise down the highways and turnpikes. He can feel Sam sneaking looks at him every once in a while, and his shoulder is starting to hurt again, every bump and roll in the road sending a twinge of pain down his back. Finally sick of the quiet, he reaches over and snaps on the radio, rocks out to Brian Johnson and WBLM all along the Maine coast until it fades to static.

\---

Halfway through New York, Sam pulls over at a rest stop. He fills up the Impala before going into the small convenience store to grab some snacks and pay for the gas. While he’s in there, Dean gets out and stretches his legs wanders over to the edge of the area where concrete meets trees and back again, leans against the car.

He knows the second Sam steps out of the convenience store, even though there’s at least three other people in there, even though his gaze has been fixed on the ground - on the grease spot next to his left boot - since he got back to the car. Knows because it’s his job, but also because it’s _Sam_ , and he’s known everything about his brother since the second he was born. Knows he’s probably got some kind of health drink for Dean and a bottle of water for himself, knows his footfalls as they thump across the concrete (leaves, carpet, or dry, brittle bones).

Knows that he’s going to do something stupid before Dean’s time is up to try and save him.

When Sam finally reaches his side, he leans against the Impala next to Dean, brown paper bag crinkling under his giant hands, and Dean can feel him staring. The scrutiny makes him itchy, flushed. Makes him want to scream, _what do you want from me, Sam?_ and leave me alone.

“Let’s go,” he says aloud.

“Wanna check your bandages first.” Sam stops him and opens the passenger door to deposit the paper bag, bends to pull out some alcohol swabs and a new roll of gauze and tape. Dean tries not to stare at the way his shirt rides up, at the sliver of tanned skin that’s exposed when he stretches across the console to grab the tape as it tries to roll away.

He follows Sam around the side of the convenience store to the little bathroom tucked away there. It’s gross inside, but not anything you wouldn’t expect in a roadside toilet. Dean makes sure to not touch anything anyway, just in case.

He strips out of his button down, handing it to Sam, and then removes his arm from his T-shirt sleeve. No need to take the entire thing off, the cuts don’t go that far. Sam’s fingers are careful when they remove the tape and bandages, but it still stings a little, the sticky tape getting caught in the hair on Dean’s back. It feels better, though, once his brother applies the cool alcohol swabs to the hurt.

He’s conscious of the way Sam presses up against him from behind, probably too close but not overly so, no more than would be appropriate for the job he’s doing. Still, with the thoughts Dean’s been having, any close contact with Sam that isn’t part of the job is probably not a good idea. He can feel his blood start to heat under his skin, and he wants to push Sam away.

He coughs and closes his eyes, tries to think of something other than the hard line of his brother behind him, touching him. Within minutes Sam is done, his fingers giving one last push against the tape, and he leans away. Dean looks up and catches his brother in the mirror, fingers hovering over his shoulder and staring at it.

Dean coughs again and steps away from him, mumbles thanks and slips his shirts back on before stepping back into the fresh air, leaving his brother to clean up their mess. Needing to be alone for just a minute.  


  
\--- 

A few more hours in the car, and eventually the skyscrapers made of wood and leaves and roots turn into those made of glass and steel. They pull onto 2nd and 53rd in Brooklyn, the late afternoon sun glinting orange off the glass storefronts. Dean (having won a ten minute long argument with Sam about being capable of driving) swings the Impala expertly into a parking space, and they hop out. He feeds the meter quarters while Sam rummages through the glove compartment for some good IDs and then joins him on the sidewalk.

The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind is the second to last storefront on the street. There are small, white wrought iron tables and chairs out front stacked with books of various sizes, paperbacks and hardbound. A paper sign flutters from the edge of one, weighted down by a heavy novel and scribbled on to read 5 for $1. He sees Sam scanning them quickly, and he wants to tell him to pick some out, but they don’t really have time, wouldn’t really go along with their covers. He pushes Sam into the store instead, makes a mental note to maybe stop off at some used bookstore when this is all finished and let Sammy go nuts.

The interior of the bookstore is set up like a restaurant, tables and chairs stacked full of books in no particular order. There’s a counter in the middle, stools still intact from the bookstore’s earlier days as an eatery, and Dean notices a coffee maker tucked away behind it, white ceramic mugs lined up next to it. There are books lined up there too, open and standing on end. These look newer than the others that are spread out all over the store, and when they get closer Dean can see it’s a new horror bestseller. He jabs Sam in the ribs and snorts at the book.

“We can write friggin’ circles around this guy with the stories we got,” he says. Sam hmm’s in response and then rings the tiny silver bell that sits on top of the counter to get the shopkeeper‘s attention.

Someone yells from the back that they’ll be right up, and after a moment a young man walks out of the back, arms full of cardboard box. Dean figures it’s probably filled with more books, and he wonders where he’ll put them all - the store’s already a mess with them. He looks to be about as old as Sam, blond hair cropped short and dull blue eyes set in a normal looking face. Not bad, but not anything to write home about. He’s wearing slacks and a button down, and Dean thinks that it’s a pretty weird outfit to choose to wear in a dusty store, but then again, he doesn’t really care, either.

The guy sets the box down and dusts his hands off on his pants before coming over to the counter to greet them. When he gets closer, Dean sees his face is actually scarred a little, a white jagged line running from eye to nostril on his left side. It’s pretty nasty, and he wonders how such a seemingly clean cut guy could get a scrape like that.

“What can I do for you guys?”

They reach into their pockets and extract their badges; probably should have changed into some suits before going in, but whatever. Feds have downtime too. “Agents Whelan and Hale. We were hoping to talk to Calvin Tower? We’d like to ask him a few questions.”

“My grandfather died nineteen years ago,” the guy says.

The word grandfather trips off his tongue like he’s not used to saying it, and Dean knows it’s more than just because it’s been almost two decades. It’s more likely the man was never actually his grandfather. Dean doesn’t call him on it, though. He’s not interested in why this guy is lying about his family. As long as he tells them the truth, Dean doesn’t care what Tower’s relationship to the man was.

“All right, maybe you can help us instead,” Sam says, and the guy shrugs, crossing his arms. Sam takes out his notepad and a pen and flips to an empty page, and Dean wonders what he’s got planned to ask.

“Was your grandfather ever in Maine?”

The guy shrugs a little, but nods. “Yeah, that - that’s where he was from. I forget the name of the town, but yeah. He moved here in his twenties, bought this shop. Stayed until he died.”

Dean narrows his eyes at him, but Sam continues, “Okay, uh. Did he ever mention anything about bear attacks?”

“Bear attacks. What does my grandfather have to do with this? ”

“We’re here to ask the questions, not you. Did he or not?” Dean barks.

The guy straightens, drops his arms and glares angrily at Dean, his eyes piercing, and Dean shivers a little with maybe-fear. Wonders why, wonders if maybe getting on this guy's bad side is the wrong idea. With his lightning-quick trigger from fine to pissed off.

“I was _six_ when my grandfather died. Had a heart attack right out front. I hardly ever saw him before he passed. He chose to spend all of his time here instead of with his family. How am I supposed to know anything? About bear attacks that went on three states away? I have no idea what he got up to. You can demand all you want, but I don’t have any answers to give you. Now, are we done?”

Dean nods, still frustrated but conceding defeat. He doesn’t think the guy is lying, though; he doesn’t know anything and they just wasted a trip, wasted hours that they could’ve spent researching or talking to Bobby.

He turns and walks towards the door, hears Sam mumble a thanks before he follows Dean. They step back into the street, New York loud and alive around them. Dean holds a hand up over his eyes to block the sun as he looks up at Sam.

“Well, that was a waste of time, got any better ideas?”

Sam huffs and opens his mouth, probably to berate Dean, but he’s interrupted by the guy from the store.

“Hey,” he says as he steps up next to them. “Look, I don’t have any answers but - I know a guy who may be able to help you. He’s in Maine, actually.” He hands Sam a piece of paper with a name and address on it in neat penmanship. “He was a friend of my grandfather’s, he may be able to give you guys what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you,“ Sam replies. The guy nods, and as the turns to go back inside, Sam asks, “What’s your name, in case we need to talk to you again?”

The man hesitates for a second, eyes downward and unfocused. Dean’s not sure he’s going to answer, but he does. He looks up again, face stony and sure as he looks between them when he says, “Chambers. Jake Chambers, but - you won’t be needing me again.”

He says it, conviction echoing along the streets of New York and Dean knows, without a doubt, they‘ll never see the man again.


End file.
